


Never, I fear, to be removed.

by Yogaduck



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Because everyone in Victorian London is gay, Fear of Discovery, Getting Together, Holmes has many emotions, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal Homosexuality, Internalized Homophobia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pre-Reichenbach, Shame, Stamford is gay, There are just a lot of emotions, Victorian Attitudes, Watson has many emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:03:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27728507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yogaduck/pseuds/Yogaduck
Summary: “Watson, I think it best if you seek alternative accommodation. Not immediately if you would rather not, it has been a tiresome day, but tomorrow will suffice.”Watson is forced to leave Baker Street in the early spring of 1882. Holmes gives no explanation for this sudden request but inadvertently shatters the heart of his dearest friend.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 90
Kudos: 160
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello beloved fandom, I started this fic in the middle of lockdown and have only just gotten round to finishing and posting oops. Hope you're all doing ok :) I'm moving house currently so updates could be irregular if internet fails me but I will try to be consistent!
> 
> A massive, enormous, heartfelt thanks to my wonderful beta, [ApprenticeofDoyle!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle)

(Watson’s POV)

It was in the early evening of what had, thus far, proven to be a very pleasant spring day in 1882. Holmes and I had been lodging together for a little over a year by this point and, as my scribbles for the Strand can attest, I had always been in awe of Sherlock Holmes. I marvelled at his mind, his abilities, his quick-witted and ingenious deductions, but there was more to it than this. I adored him with every fibre of my being. My whole body felt as though it were tied to him. Everything he did, he did with indescribable grace. His body moved with an unprecedented elegance and I was mesmerised from the moment of our first meeting. 

That evening we had recently returned from the conclusion of a case. Holmes had once again strung together the threads of a murder in his usual seamless and accomplished manner, and we had dined comfortably, with our usual, easy camaraderie. It was not yet dark, as the evenings were much brighter during these spring days and I enjoyed this immensely. Despite this light stretching further into the evening, it was still decidedly chilly in London and I was glad of the fire that was crackling gently in the hearth. After dinner, I had begun to notice Holmes looking at me in a peculiar fashion and smoking his onyx pipe contemplatively, but did not comment on it. By the time I had taken out a cigar and lit it, he was pacing the small space between the sitting room door and the edge of the fireplace. I frowned, uncertain what had brought about this sudden agitation. He had been smiling his enchanting smile at me during dinner and had, or so I thought, been in extremely high spirits. But what had changed in such a short space of time?

He stopped short in the middle of the room, and stared at me with such a piercing gaze that it unnerved me. He seemed to come to some sort of decision in his mind because he stopped frowning and drew himself up to his full height, rolling back his shoulders and lifting his chin high. I knew the expression he had on his face. It was the expression he wore when he was placing that abominable mask on, that cool, unfeeling mask of indifference. My blood ran cold.

“... Holmes?” I offered hesitantly.

“Watson, I think it best if you seek alternative accommodation. Not immediately if you would rather not, it has been a tiresome day, but tomorrow will suffice.” His voice was emotionless, cold. I felt a chill run down my spine and I shivered involuntarily.

“W-What?” I stuttered, not quite believing my ears, but my heart had certainly heard and was hammering violently against my ribcage.

“I believe you heard,” He said in a cruel, bitter tone. “I would rather you didn’t dither and make this more complicated than it ought–”

"But... why?" I interrupted. My voice quivered like one of the strings of Holmes' violin. "What have I done to offend you, Holmes? Whatever it is, I'm desperately sorry... was it the latest case in the Strand? Was it my slowness? My inability to keep up with your deductions? Holmes... I–"

"I cannot give particulars, Watson!" he snapped. His voice was cutting, making my already broken nerves disintegrate entirely. "It's just... _you_..."

I had always known it was impossible for Holmes to reciprocate my feelings, but to hear that my presence irritated him–disgusted him even–to the point of his forcing me to leave was enough to break my heart into a thousand shards. 

My eyes fell to the carpet as they filled with tears. I couldn't breathe, his cold, sharp tone hurt. The pain in my chest was excruciating. I had made the one person in the world whom I truly cared for loathe me. 

"I'm sorry..." My voice cracked, straining to form words over the heart in my throat. My voice box was being squeezed tightly, my lungs trampled on and my mouth as dry as sandpaper. "I never... Holmes... I..." I bit down hard on my lip. What had caused this sudden change in my dearest friend? Maybe... oh _God_. I had returned his smile at dinner with as much warmth as it evoked within me. Had he deduced my true feelings for him and was... repulsed? The thought made my stomach drop and my hands tremble.

"Watson..." 

"It's alright... I... I understand... I'll leave tonight, today, right this moment. You won't have to do a thing… it'll be just as before..." _Before I loved you_ my traitorous thoughts whispered. My mind was whirring as I threw my cigar in the fire, turned, and strode towards the door. I couldn't look at him, everything in me wanted to look back, just to gaze upon his elegant face for one last time, but I couldn't. He would see the tears in my eyes and I couldn't bear that. 

I hurried up the stairs and stormed into my room, almost slamming the door behind me. I scrambled and dashed across the floor as I gathered my things. I couldn't stop. If I stopped and breathed for even a second I would be lost. 

I threw my clothes into the cases like a madman, hands trembling and fumbling. When I had packed every item, I realised some of my things were in the sitting room and my heart leapt. I couldn't go in there. I couldn't see him again. 

But I had to gather everything, _I must be strong._ I was a former soldier. If I couldn't summon the courage to enter our sitting room then I was unworthy of that title. With great trepidation I walked back down the stairs towards the sitting room. My heart was beating so fast it felt like it was humming. I swallowed thickly. Grasping the bag I had brought to bundle my things in tightly, I turned the handle.

I would _not_ look at him. If I looked I knew I would break. I hurtled in, entirely too fast, and cringed as I stumbled over to my desk. I could see Holmes out of the corner of my eye by the window. 

"Watson..." He said softly. I ignored him. _I couldn't look._

I grasped at my papers and books and hurriedly threw them in the bag. There was no order to it, just frantic, manic, desperation. I was breathing heavily in an attempt to steady my nerves. My hands were trembling terribly, and made securing the clasp on the bag very difficult indeed. 

" _Watson_..." He said again, he was nearer now. 

"Holmes, _please_ ... _don't_ . I _beg_ of you." I pleaded, turning my back to him. "I…" Leaving him like this was breaking my heart. I swallowed hard. "Goodbye H-Holmes." I croaked. With pain in my chest I strode towards the door. I would go to my club. Only then, only when I was alone and behind a locked door would I allow myself to mourn the loss of our friendship and my tattered heart. 

I rushed down the stairs and through the front door in a frenzy. I cast about for a four-wheeler, as much as I would have preferred the speed of a hansom, it wouldn’t take my luggage. I hailed the first I saw and instructed the driver to bring down my cases, recklessly throwing a sovereign at him. _I will regret that later_ , I thought with a cringe. I didn’t have much in the way of money, I had yet to establish a lucrative practice, only allowing the patients to pay what they could afford, however, in that moment, all I could think of was getting away. The cabbie caught it, shouted at a crossing sweep to mind the horses, and with a toothy grin, bounded up the stairs to do as I asked. 

As I settled myself in the cab, I saw with a stab of disappointment that Holmes hadn't followed me down. I had half hoped that he would have, hurriedly apologising, saying it was all a mistake, beseeching. I cursed my foolish heart as it reflected upon such a notion. _Of course_ he would not. 

Did so many years of friendship and companionship really come to this? Was he so disgusted by my proclivities that he couldn't even see me off? My mind whispered black thoughts; _stupid to think he cared enough. You were just a tool. Useful for a time but not so useful that he could tolerate your bent, perverse nature. You were always slowing him down. He's probably congratulating himself on finding a legitimate reason to rid himself of the crumbling old doctor who followed him around like a lost spaniel. You are pathetic. He would never look at you that way._

I closed my eyes against the venom of my thoughts. The driver secured the cases to the back and the cab jolted a little as he did so. After shouting out the address of my club, I realised with agonising pain in my heart, that I would never see Sherlock Holmes again. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson wallows in his new reality but meets an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I've just moved house and have no Internet until 15th which as you can imagine is devastating. I am able to walk up the road to get 4G though so thought I would post whilst I had the chance!

(Watson’s POV)

It had been two days. Forty-eight hours. Twenty-eight hundred and eighty minutes since I left Baker’s Street. I had fled to my club that night, securing a room and sending word to my practice that I would be taking a week's holiday, not that there would be many patients to note my absence. I couldn’t face normality, to return to my routine would be to get on with my life, as if nothing had happened, and the very thought of it nauseated me.

I lay awake most of that night, my mind a whirl. I had just lost the single most precious thing I had on this cursed planet. The idea that I would never again see him cut me so deeply that I had sobbed openly into my pillow. But this desperation also made me feel a deep shame, for what was I without _him_? I was a broken man before I met him, and he had put all my pieces back together with such tenderness. His friendship, while not openly affectionate, was a reason to live. Helping him with his work gave me purpose, and looking after myself in the hopes that he would, for once, think about his own health, had consumed me. 

Now I was alone. 

The black feeling of isolation wrapped itself around me, smothering me till I could hardly breathe. I felt an overwhelming tiredness - not necessarily a physical fatigue, but a deep weariness. I was made of lead.

I didn’t know what to do, or where to go. I barely knew what time of day it was when eventually I decided to go for a walk. As it happened, it was late evening, the sun was setting, making London’s sky a wash of orange and pink. One can easily become lost in the beauty of London if one knows the right places to go. But, as I walked, I quickly recognised the area as somewhere Holmes and I had been to on a case and quickly changed direction. Until it happened again, and again and again. I became frantic. Was there nowhere I could walk without the painful memories reminding me of what I had lost? Round every corner, along every street, I became keenly aware of a time that Holmes and I had walked there arm in arm. My chest was tight again and tears threatened. I couldn’t remain in London. If I stood still this would devour me, swallow me up whole and I would be helpless to stop it. The fire of painful memories would burn me everyday, it was this city, Holmes’ city. I had to get away.

****

As I returned to my club I saw a familiar face in the smoking room. Stamford. A part of me was relieved, whilst another part of me wanted to run. He looked up from his paper as I entered and jumped up to greet me instantly.

“John! How good to see you old chap! What brings you here?” He approached me and clasped my hand, shaking it with his usual upbeat geniality and a warm smile. I attempted a smile in return but the result was a weak, pained expression, which I knew he would instantly see through.

“What is it, old man? Has something happened? You look dreadfully pale, come have a seat and tell me everything.” He ushered me into the chair across from him by the fire, I was loathed to explain but the fire warmed my weary bones and I hesitated.

Stamford was a good friend back in medical school. We had even been slightly more than that for a time, but that was long over. He had always been so attentive to my fragile nerves, and had soothed my homesickness with a gentle and affectionate regard. He had a rare kindness to him that was a balm to my battered spirits. I was in desperate need of his compassion again when I returned wounded from the battle of Maiwand. He had so wanted to be there for me, bless his generous heart, but his up and coming career as a lung specialist meant he was always busy, and he was already sharing a flat with a brother medico. Thus, he did what he could for me and found someone whom I could share the rent with. We were no longer lovers, but we shared a closeness that mere friends could never attain, after sharing such intimacies with one another. 

He shares my proclivities, I considered, and therefore could be trusted with this story, but not here. _God knows, not here._

He saw my hesitation and his brow furrowed into a look of deep concern.

“Not here, Stamford. Come up to my room, I am staying here.” I barely had time to register his look of surprise as I turned around and led him from the room.

Once we were upstairs and behind closed doors, I let out a weary sigh and sat in one of the armchairs while motioning Stamford to sit too. He was looking even more confused and a little shocked when he saw my cases in the corner of the room.

“My dear fellow, tell me what on Earth has happened?” His tone was swamped with concern, understanding and empathy, it was too much for my fragile state and tears began to prick my eyes once more. Seeing this he put a hand in his jacket and produced a hip flask, handing it to me while reaching for my hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “John… please, in your own time, tell me everything.” 

I took a fortifying sip of whiskey. His hand was warm and it helped to steady me, and so I began to tell him the whole sorry story: how Holmes, quite out of the blue, had turned to me one evening and requested I find alternative accommodation. I told of how I had fallen deeply in love with Holmes some time ago, but had resigned myself to it, how now I feared he knew the truth of my feelings and was repulsed, disgusted, and never wished to see me again. Stamford listened attentively, brushing his thumb over my hand comfortingly when my voice caught and cracked during my tale. His expression, while sympathetic and reassuring, was also contemplative and quite bewildered. When I had confessed all I realised my tears had made a steady journey down my cheeks without my noticing, so I brought out my handkerchief and wiped them away, slightly embarrassed. I needn't have been, as Stamford and I had been through much together and had wept and comforted each other dozens of times. 

I took another sip from the flask and looked at Stamford. His expression now had become more confused, and I swallowed thickly.

“I would never have thought that Holmes… I… Hmm…” He mused and I looked at him, myself now confused.

“What is it?” I asked hesitantly, but he only smiled at me and shook his head.

“It’s nothing, John, I’m so sorry old chap, this _is_ all rather ghastly I must say.” He looked down at our hands, which were still clasped together. “I cannot say how sorry I am that you should be in such pain, dear fellow. Love is never kind to our sort, I’m afraid.”

I was reluctant to talk anymore about it, Stamford again looked at me with clear concern in his expressive eyes and insisted that I ate something. We dined in the club as I was too weary to venture out again. With a herculean effort I attempted to distract myself and talk to Stamford of other things whilst we dined and played cards into the night. But all the while my heart was still pressing tightly and sharply into my ribs, I couldn’t help but think of Holmes and what he might be doing at that moment, and my heart yearned to be by his side once more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes sits alone in Baker Street contemplating before he receives an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! The Internet here might not be fixed until the new year so pray for me in my wifi-less existence... I can just about get a signal at the end of the road as I mentioned last time so here we are!
> 
> This one is angsty but I love angsty Holmes so no regrets tbh. Enjoy!

(Holmes POV) 

I had hardly moved since Watson left. Although I frequently allow myself to be deprived of sustenance, or even basic needs, I felt worse than I ever had. Worse even than the pain of my morphine dependence, and the agony of its withdrawal. But what I felt at that moment as I sat in my chair, staring helplessly at Watson’s empty one, was beyond words. Beyond understanding, beyond comprehension.

I felt wretched. But I could not allow myself to wallow. I had done what was best for Watson. We had been sharing rooms together for almost a year when I began to feel for him a deep longing, a yearning of immeasurable passion. At first it was our warm friendship that I most cherished in life, but soon he had come to mean much more, he was the world to me. I would find myself watching him, basking in his look of concentration when writing, his face puzzled as he struggled to remember specifics, before it transformed into excited reminiscence. 

It had been abominably selfish, to indulge in his calming, gentle friendship for so long. Given, it was nothing but pure, but my heart had morphed it into something immoral, desire and pining ruining it from within. These emotions confounded me. How could I feel such all consuming passion, whilst simultaneously feeling such tender, gentle… love? It made no logical sense, the two should not be able to coexist. What I felt was not just desire, not just deep yearning for him, body and soul, but also, pure and achingly sweet. They were two sides of the same coin. Was this what love was? An exquisite torture? A beautiful agony? Plunging a dagger into one's heart everyday with willingness and vigour? Was this not a complete contradiction of all logic? When I feel such dark desires creep into my mind, I am disgusted with myself. Yet they are evoked by him, by my love for him, and he could never be disgusting. The tender, selfless love I felt for him, could never be anything but pure. I was awash with confusion. He made me feel so much all at once, I could hardly begin to understand it. I am a lover of logic, of reason, and these emotions were so far from where I felt most comfortable. Being with him I felt at sea. 

He was all that was good in my life, and his presence brought out the best in my abilities. When I was with him, I deduced faster, more efficiently, more effectively, like a well-oiled machine. I was constantly hungry for his approval, his praise, so much so that I was theatrical and dramatic in my deductions, but without ever straying from the core logistical foundations of each one. I performed for him each and every day like a showman would to an auditorium, he was my harbinger of joy, my conductor of light. Without him, I feared that I would rust—fade away.

But the alternative was far worse. I could not bear for him to see my true motives. He would be repulsed, disgusted, and that beautiful face would look at me with hatred. I could not _ever_ allow that to happen. Each day by his side became more challenging, and as my ardour grew, so did my inability to control it. I found myself hardly able to exercise restraint when he was near, so often did I wish to reach out and stroke his dear face, trace my fingers along his faint smile lines. Press my lips to his, and plunder that sweet mouth. 

No. _No, no no._

This was the very reason I had to cast him away. My perverse heart and mind would taint him and our friendship both. Such close proximity to him had become excruciating. He was better off away, far away; I could not risk destroying our friendship completely. If I cast him out, he may eventually forgive me. My own corrupt nature was my burden to bear, and I would not subject him to it. It was not by any way imaginable _his_ fault that my mind interpreted his kindness as more, only the crazed imaginings of a depraved lowlife such as I was, am. 

I placed my head in my hands, the panicked thoughts and justifications for my actions spinning about in my consciousness. 

That evening everything had come to a head, during dinner he had smiled at me in such a way that his whole face looked awash with sunlight. His eyes were bright and so dazzling I could do nothing but stare. That smile had made me feel so full of joy, of aching love. Later, when I watched him settle himself in his chair, I watched his surgeon’s fingers light a cigar and I thought about how they would feel upon my skin. I had lashed out at my mind for tainting such an innocent scene and I realised then, that I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to do something. It was my name upon the lease so he must be the one to leave. I had to _make_ him leave.

I cannot forget his face when I told him. Stricken, as if I had dealt him a physical blow. He had struggled, visibly. He’d wanted to know _why_ , and in my panic, I had snapped.

If I had thought his previous expression painful to my heart, his next almost broke it. He had been brave, my Watson, in the face of such cruel words from the one he called friend. 

Try as he might have to hide it, I knew my Watson was near tears. The observation tore through my heart like a fillet knife. I had wanted to change my mind right then— to apologise, take him into my arms, anything! But I only stood there like a drowning man, useless, and spoke his name like I hadn’t lost my right to it.

My heart ached at the memory. It twisted and tied itself in ugly knots within my chest. I had no right to feel so wretched, so broken. I had caused this, it was _I_ that had fallen in love with _him_ , it was _I_ that had been unable to control such perverse emotions, it was _I_ who had cast him out, it was _I_ who placed those tears in his eyes. _It was I._ Confound it all! What I had done was for his sake, I told myself – for what felt like the thousandth time, and thus logic dictated that I should have felt nothing but relief that he was no longer at risk, or in close proximity to my perverse desires, and _yet._ _Yet_ , I felt worse than ever. Worse than the agony of concealing my emotions, worse than hating myself for having such emotions in the first place, worse because I knew I had _hurt_ him. All logic paled in the light of that fact. I had _hurt_ him. I had seen it in his face, such pain in his eyes, I could never feel any ounce of relief at the end result of my actions, because they had _caused_ that pain. 

I sighed and lit my pipe. I briefly wondered where he would have gone, after I had cast him out so cruelly.

My thoughts were scattered by the sound of the front door and the bustle of Mrs Hudson allowing a visitor to enter. For the first time, my mind recoiled at the thought. It could be the most abstruse cryptogram, the most intricate puzzle of my career, yet inexplicably, I couldn’t be moved to care. What was the chase, without my Watson? Any victory, I felt, would be meaningless.

The door opened at that moment and before I could bellow at Mrs Hudson that I would receive no visitors, I saw Stamford’s anxious face appear. 

Stamford? What could he possibly want? It had been an age since I had last seen him, he was practically chained to his office in Bart’s. I narrowed my eyes, but did not rise from my chair, lighting and drawing deeply from my pipe.

“I’m in no mood for visitors, Stamford,” I snapped. “Whatever it is, can’t it wait?” I looked away from him as Mrs Hudson shut the door and he stepped further into the room without acknowledging me, coming around and settling himself upon the settee; he knew my moods well enough not to expect an invitation and, evidently, to ignore an unearned dismissal. 

“Holmes, my _God._ ” I looked back to see Stamford’s face, which was hard as stone, eyes sharp with disappointed judgement. _“_ I never thought you could be so cruel…” 

“You might have to be a _little_ more specific, Stamford,” I said dryly. “I may be in possession of some talent, but even _I_ need some small amount of data. I cannot make bricks without clay.” 

“John captured you perfectly in his stories, I see. Verbatim, even—such a cold, callous machine that you can’t even recall the cruel, heartless way you treated your devoted friend not three days ago!” Stamford’s voice began quiet and cutting, but he shouted the last words with a venom I had never before heard uttered from his lips.

At the mention of Watson, I flinched. My heart gave an involuntary lurch and I scowled at Stamford, my own anger rising within me. He didn’t know what he was talking about, he had no _idea_ the agony I had been in with Watson in such close proximity. My actions were for his sake alone; he meant more to me than Stamford could ever begin to understand! How dare he admonish me for keeping Watson safe? 

“You know nothing about it, Stamford!” I barked.

“I know enough, Holmes. I have seen him, seen what you have _done_ to him. How could you? You of all people…” He broke off, shaking his head.

What had I _done_ to him? What I had done was to protect him, shield him from my own vile nature. Yet, I so desperately wanted to know how he was… My heart yearned to know if he was well, to be assured that I was right to act as I did, I forced it down, I must not allow my judgement be clouded by sentiment and wishful thinking.

“Stamford… I…” I swallowed thickly.. “What I did was for the best…” 

“For the best!” he spat. “You made him think… _Christ,_ Holmes… the man is in love with you!”

I sat perfectly still. My fingers clutched my pipe firmly between trembling fingers, and I stared at Stamford with blank amazement, confusion and horror. 

“What…?” I whispered, my voice caught.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know! You turn him out when you of all people should sympathise! To make him think you are disgusted by him when you share his proclivities! Do you know how broken he is, Holmes?! He believes you despise him, that you deduced his feelings and are outraged and sickened by his nature! You abominable hypocrite!” He was so impassioned now that his hands clenched into fists in his lap, but with his next words, he leant forward towards me and lowered his volume. “I didn’t confess to knowing you to be an invert also; I didn’t want to make him more distressed. If I had told him, what do you think he would have gleaned from it?!” Although the ire in his voice was muted now, it had not lost its potency, its sharp edge and abject bitterness, cutting the space between us. “That instead of repulsion to his nature, you were simply repulsed by _him_? You know what he thinks of himself, Holmes—the low opinion he bears of his abilities, his scars, his wounds.” He looked away from me then, all his words used up.

I was still staring at Stamford, aghast. He _loves_ me. It couldn’t be true, yet Stamford’s passionate anger was undeniable. To be so convinced, it must be the truth, and if it was the truth— 

“He loves me,” I said, brokenly.

Stamford looked down upon me, brow furrowed.

“...You really didn’t know.” His eyes became kinder as he looked into my stricken face. “You’re a fool, Holmes.”

“You’re right,” I whispered,voice hoarse. I stood up abruptly, throwing my pipe down on the mantelpiece. I began pacing the hearthrug, gripping my hair tightly and pulling until it hurt. 

“I… I had no idea. You see I… I love him, too.” Stamford looked astonished, and I cut him off before he could say anymore. “I thought he would be horrified… I was terrified, panicked, I couldn’t be near him without yearning to touch him.” I spoke quickly now, the words tumbling out in a maladroit confession. “ _God_ , it was agony, Stamford. To work with him, lodge with him and feel such… emotion. Such a deep longing, knowing I could never have him, not in the way my heart wanted. I imagined him looking at me with utter repugnance, should he ever know. I couldn’t do it! I was an overwound clock, each day it became harder and harder to restrain myself from declaring the truth. So I decided to cast him from me. Then, there was still the possibility of him forgiving me, in time. I was so caught up in my own agony I didn’t even notice. Believe me, I didn’t know, _God help me, I didn’t know._ ” I ceased pacing and stumbled back into my chair placing my hands over my face, digging in my nails.

Stamford was silent. I didn’t look up, I didn’t want him to see that my speech had left me breathless and tearful. Distantly, I felt a hand on my shoulder squeeze tightly, and then his warm, soothing baritone spoke once more. 

“Find him,” he whispered.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson arrives in Edinburgh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I actually have WiFi after 2 painful weeks of going out in the cold to Google something! I know this one is a little short so apologies but I hope you enjoy :) 
> 
> As always your comments are my life blood and a huge thank you to my beta - [ApprenticeofDoyle!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle)

(Watson’s POV)

I escaped London the morning after my evening with Stamford. I took the earliest train to Edinburgh I could find, choosing second-class to economise. I fervently wished that returning to Scotland would ease my heart, that the familiarity of the Scottish city would distract me.

I knew the moment I stepped off the train that I was wrong. 

Edinburgh did not, in fact, take my mind off Holmes. It only proved to make me feel even more isolated. I had fantasised that the next time I ventured here would be with Holmes and my heart smarted at that thought. 

At the station, I was lucky enough to come across a generous young porter who offered to take my cases. He had a kind face, inquisitive green eyes and the eager energy of youth. I asked him to direct me to lodgings, pausing only slightly before dashing aside my dignity in favour of my purse. Avoiding his eyes, I requested that he not be fooled by my well made clothes for I required a cheap room. Smiling understandingly he nodded and led the way. We wandered through the streets for a while before coming to a small lodging house. It was rather dilapidated, but as I couldn’t afford extravagance, it was more than adequate. It was not quite like the common-lodging houses of London where one would be expected to always share a room with many others, but it shared the trait of uncleanliness. As I climbed the rickety stairs to the top landing, my bad leg murmured its protest. The landlady led me into a neat, practically bare, small room with sloped ceilings. The walls seemed to have been recently limewashed, and I was relieved to see there was a proper bed, not just a mattress laid upon the decidedly filthy wooden floor. I thanked the porter as he brought the cases in and set them down beside the bed, gave him a half crown for his trouble and, once again, I was alone.

I stood in the middle of the room and examined the suspect stains upon the sheets that covered the single iron framed bed. Mrs Hudson would have something to say about the state of those threadbare sheets, I thought absently. There was a chair in one corner and a wash basin and jug in another. A grimy mirror hung above the washbasin, so covered with filth that it was a wonder anyone could see their reflection at all. 

I was exhausted. My head was pounding excessively, my nose felt congested and my throat painfully sore. It may have been early afternoon, but I decided to settle down on the bed for a while. I stared at the ceiling above and my thoughts turned, for what seemed the hundredth time, to Holmes. Treacherous tears filled my eyes once more and I pulled the covers over myself in an attempt to shut out the world. 

It really was inevitable, I pondered, to watch Holmes at his work, his dexterous fingers dancing, his sharp mind moments from deducing that I was helplessly in love with him. Never again would I watch him at a crime scene, never again would I see his look of triumph when all the pieces aligned, never again would I hear him play his violin for me.

What had I  _ done _ ? I should have been more vigilant, should have buried my feelings better.  _ Useless, stupid, perverse fool…  _ Slowly, I drifted into unconsciousness, my weary body finally winning out over my tumultuous mind. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes goes looking for his Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends :) happy Christmas Eve! I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas despite the crazy times we are living in (if you celebrate Christmas or just a great day if you do not!). Hope you enjoy this chapter, yet again it is angstyyyy. But I've come to realise whilst reading through my stories/ideas that I like to rip my heart out on a regular basis over these two... oops. Enjoy!

(Holmes’ POV)

When Stamford departed 221B, I still sat gripping the arms of my chair by the hearth, reeling and horribly unbalanced. My hands shook, and taking a deep breath, I pinched the bridge of my nose tightly. 

_ “Christ, Holmes... the man is in love with you!” _

How could I have been so blind? The evidence was there, black and white, the truth ready to be deduced from every kind word he uttered, every thoughtful gesture, every awe-filled expression directed at me. I saw it all now, each moment flashing through my mind like lightning strikes. But I had overlooked it. Sentiment had made me blind, emotion had made my logistical mind foggy and slow. I wanted to damn my emotions to hell, but these emotions were what made Watson so dear to me, and I could not regret that, regret him, for the world. If only there was some way to grapple this whirlwind of feeling, to temper this storm.

My heart ached when I thought back to our parting. I had been so cruel to him. His face, the pain in his eyes when he’d left, still haunted me. Now, seeing that evening with new eyes, I knew it wasn’t disappointment at my heartlessness, or sadness at our friendship’s end that had caused his tears. It was heartache. I squeezed my eyes shut, fiercely, against the pain that that thought brought to my heart.  _ Oh Watson… my Watson.  _

I had to find him. I couldn’t let him believe, for a moment longer than necessary, the horrific untruth that I had rejected his beautiful heart.

I leapt from my chair and dashed to my room. I donned my clothing with practiced speed and snatched up a coat. I called to Mrs Hudson as I descended the stairs, informing her I was going out, and no, I didn’t know how long I’d be, and yes, not to bother with dinner. I flung open the front door, and for the first time in days, found myself outside on the London streets.

****

_ Damn and blast!  _ I cursed softly to myself as I exited Watson’s club. He had been there the night before, just as Stamford relayed, but he had left that morning, or so I gathered from the club’s staff members. The club secretary had said he’d made an early departure and headed for Kings Cross. 

Kings Cross, I mused He must be headed further afield then—most likely he would have travelled on the Great Northern Railway. If he intended to travel elsewhere in London, he would have travelled via Paddington, which was by far closer to his club. No… he would not have made the deliberate, further journey to Camden unless there was a particular reason. That reason, I surmised, was a specific train which could not be caught from Paddington or even Victoria–thus a train which could not be caught from anywhere in Westminster.  _ Edinburgh.  _ Of course he would return to the city he knew so well. He had received his Bachelor of Medicine from Edinburgh University and he had often spoken to me of the happy memories he associated with the Scottish city.

I hurtled towards the first cab I saw and made my way to Kings Cross. Once there, I encountered Williams, an Irregular of mine who often spends his days sheltering in the bustling station picking up anything which the distracted passengers might have inadvertently dropped. Williams sat in his usual corner of the dusty foyer observing the to-ing and fro-ing with wide observant eyes. When he saw me, his eyes lit up, the sight of me no doubt associated with a task, and as a result, any spare change I had on my person. The grubby-looking boy stood up hurriedly and doffed his dirty cap in a rather endearing fashion. He was no more than twelve years old, but knew Kings Cross better than anyone. 

“Williams!” I said animatedly, anxious to know whether he had seen the Doctor that morning. “Have you seen Dr. Watson recently? Am I to be indebted to your keen eyes and ears once again? Did he buy a ticket? What was the destination, my lad?” I realised I was speaking quickly and in what was obviously a desperate tone, but cared little.

Williams’ face lit up and the bright eyes that peeped out from under his cap, sparkled as he spoke, “I ‘ave an’ all! ‘e were ‘ere just this mornin’, Mister ‘olmes, sir, ‘e bought a ticket and ‘eaded over ter pla’form one, go’ on tha' big green train, one wiv ter black engine.” The Flying Scotsman. So he  _ was  _ headed to Edinburgh.

Williams looked up at me expectantly, wondering if his nugget of information was enough to earn him a coin or two. I dove a hand in my pocket and threw him two half crowns that lurked there.

“Thank you, Williams, that is most helpful, I said with a smile. His face transformed once more as he grinned at the sight of the money. 

“Cor, thanks Mister ‘olmes Sir, be seein’ yer!” he called after me, as I took several long strides to the ticket counter.

****

The train rattled soothingly along the tracks, the slight swaying movement soporific from my seat in the carriage. But I couldn’t allow myself but a moment to rest. Every moment he spent believing that I hated him, despised him, was pure agony. Every second apart from him was grating. I longed for his comforting presence, his reassuring voice and warm smile. I did not deserve that smile. How often had he blessed me with such exquisite expressions? His soft features calmed the howling winds of my mind. He was all that was bright and warm. How could I have ever thought I could function without him? It was impossible. Painful, too painful, to contemplate not seeing that face every day, regardless of whether I was in any way worthy of it.

Sitting in that train compartment, gazing out across the countryside that dashed past the window, I was suddenly acutely aware of my own fragility. I had always prided myself on being self-sufficient. I could always find a way to get by. In the past I have been many things, but never destitute. That word suddenly took on a whole new meaning. I was  _ destitute _ despite being wealthy,  _ destitute _ despite having access to shelter, clothing, sustenance. Regardless of all of these luxuries, I was poor without my Watson. My life had become devoid of meaning, and so much of my wellbeing now depended upon one person, without whom I was nothing but a shaking, emotional wreck. My mind refused to function, my limbs forgot how to conduct themselves with any semblance of calm. What had I become? When had he become so essential to my existence? I felt mildly ashamed, almost mortified by the realisation. How had I allowed myself to become so vulnerable? It seemed all it would take to crush the “great Sherlock Holmes” was the loss of his Boswell. 

But he wasn’t mine. Not anymore. The thought made my heart ache. I would find him, I had to, if I did not, I knew with a bitter certainty, my soul would leave my body, float into non-existence, leaving nothing but an empty husk of a man behind. I would never be whole again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson falls unwell, alone, in a filthy Edinburgh lodging house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Sorry this was supposed to be uploaded yesterday but I lost track of the days! Also sorry this one is so short I'll probably upload another this week to make up for it. Happy new year!

(Watson’s POV)

My watch declared it to be four in the afternoon by the time I opened my weary eyes. The winter sun was setting and the light was slanted as it attempted to shine through the dirty glass of the curtainless window. I swung my legs to the side of the bed and leant my arms on my knees. My head was still pounding and my thoughts clattered around it’s fragile edges painfully. I covered my face with my hands and tried to breathe evenly. 

When I closed my eyes, I saw Holmes. He smiled at me, that soft affectionate smile I had only ever seen directed at me. In my mind’s eye, he turned and stood from his armchair encouraging me to follow him, his face alight with excitement at a new lead. He turned away towards the door and threw on his coat with such careless elegance that my heart ached deep within me. He looked back at me grinning and chuckled, and slowly, that soft chuckle transformed into a silent, shoulder-shaking laugh, the sight of which always gave me a disproportionate amount of joy. 

I opened my eyes quickly to banish the image, making a sound that was half-way between a gasp and a sob. Why must my mind torture me with visions of him? Would I ever know peace? My chest was tight and my breath unsteady. The tears were already falling, but I had wept so frequently in the last few days that I hardly noticed them. I hated myself for these emotions. Why must life be so cruel? Why could I not fall in love with some quiet, respectable woman? Why did I have to fall in love with my best friend, the greatest man in all the world? He was the most intelligent, phenomenal being I had ever known.

_ Stop. _

I stood up abruptly, frustrated with my mind for going over questions that would never be answered. Pining for a man who wanted nothing to do with me. I was stronger than this. I swayed slightly on my feet, suddenly very dizzy. I had, perhaps, stood up too fast, and the unsteadiness combined with my pounding head was making me feel dreadful. I hadn’t eaten all day, which was likely the cause, but for the life of me I couldn’t seem to gather the energy or motivation to remedy that. I stood there, clutching the iron frame at the foot of the bed, and felt hopeless. Another wave of dizziness rushed through me and I had to cling to the cool metal with as much strength as my emaciated body would allow. I stumbled forward to the washbasin and poured out some of the water from the jug with trembling hands. With an effort I placed the heavy jug back down and slowly let my fingers fall beneath the surface of the water in the basin. It was cool but not freezing. My shaking hands made the water ripple and I stared distantly at the droplets as they ran off my fingers back into the basin. I splashed some water onto my face to try and clear my muddled mind and gasped in surprise. My skin was very hot to the touch, despite the cool water. 

My medical instincts were shouting that this was not a good sign, that I should eat something and keep hydrated, but I just… couldn’t. As I turned back to the bed, I doubted I would be well enough to descend the stairs let alone look for sustenance. I stumbled towards my cases and sunk to my knees. I steadied myself on the floor for a beat before looking for a nightshirt. To hell with conventional bedtimes! It may be four in the afternoon but nothing else in the world appealed to me more than climbing straight back into that bed. 

I shrugged out of my clothes, hanging them on the end of the bed and crawling on all fours like an animal to clamber under the covers. The back of my mind was telling me how pathetic I was, but I ignored it and collapsed against the pillow in exhaustion.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes finds Watson who's taken a turn for the worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As I said I'm posting again this week as last weeks was so short. Hope you enjoy this update and brace yourselves because it only gets more fluffy from here!

(Holmes’ POV)

It proved the easiest task imaginable to track John Watson once I had arrived at Edinburgh station. The man is entirely too memorable, not to mention he possesses the ability to immediately charm any soul he encounters, entirely, I believe, unconsciously. It was a matter of minutes before I was being led by a keen-eyed porter to the lodging house he had directed Watson to earlier that day.

I was not expecting, however, to be led to the ramshackle, decaying residence, that I stood before. I hardly heard the porter when he mentioned ‘the gentleman’ had taken the attic room, but paid him for his trouble absently as I stared up at the tall, crumbling building. The upper level of the house looked like it had been a rushed afterthought, installed carelessly and cheaply. The box window loomed ominously out over the rest in an alarmingly slanted fashion. The rest of the windows had been so weathered by the elements that the wooden frames were warped and bent, and, despite the evening darkness, I could see the glass was filthy. Mould clawed it's way up the panes like a cancer, blackening the edges in a grotesquely. 

My heart beat a sharp staccato rhythm within my chest as I approached the steps and rapped firmly on the door. The cold was beginning to bite and my breath came out in ghostly clouds, illuminated by the street lamps. There was a shuffle and a murmur on the other side before a wide, red faced woman, in her mid-sixties, opened the door. Deductions flew around my brain like a tornado but I bore them no mind, immediately requesting permission to visit my friend. At the sight of the half-crown in my hand, the landlady forgot all qualms she may previously have had at allowing a strange, dark gentleman to call at such an hour, and bobbed a hurried curtsey before leading the way. The smells that reached my heightened senses were overwhelming. _Damp. Wood worm. Mud. River water. Lye. Virginia leaf tobacco. Gin. Worn leather. Ink. Newspaper. Boot polish. Mould. Soot. Dust. Dust. Dust._

The landlady departed the top landing after pointing to the room where I would find my friend, and I stopped short. All of a sudden, my lungs tightened upon the realisation that only a thin wooden door separated Watson and I. What would I say? Would he want to see me after I had treated him so despicably? Hesitantly, with my heart in my throat, I rapped upon the door. There was no answer. I rapped again, but still no sound came from within. I frowned and tried the handle. It was unlocked. I stepped through into the dark room, illuminated only by the weak glow of the street lamp outside the curtainless window. There upon the bed lay my Watson, soaked with sweat and breathing haggardly, his lungs wheezing as they tried to take in enough air. Immediately I shut the door and rushed to his side, kneeling on the wooden floor I placed a trembling hand upon his pale brow.

“Watson?” I whispered, my own breathing becoming laboured at the sight before me. Watson made no reply, but his skin was very hot to the touch and glistening with perspiration. He was shivering too, his limbs trembling and occasionally jerking unexpectedly. He stirred under my touch, but did not awaken. 

“Watson… oh my Watson..” I breathed. He was so pale, a deathly white, the likes of which I had never seen before ⎼ at least, on a living person. I swallowed thickly. Usually, his skin still betrayed his time abroad, and this stark contrast in pallor was terrifying.

He murmured in his sleep and I clasped his hand, bringing it up to my lips and kissing his fingers delicately. “What have I done?” I whispered desperately, “This is my fault, all my fault, _Watson…_ ” Still he did not awaken, jerking his head back and forth on the pillow. I looked about me and saw a chair in one corner of the room, reluctantly I let go of Watson’s hand and dragged it towards the bed. Noticing the unlit candle on the nightstand, I lit it to better see Watson’s face. My fingers were trembling as I struck the match, and my vision blurred. Candle lit, I once again laid a hand upon Watson’s brow, the other I placed over my eyes, trying to clear my head enough to think. _He needs to cool down, I need to bring his temperature down._ I jerked around on the chair scanning the rest of the room frantically. I leapt up upon seeing the washbasin and poured more water from the jug before bringing the basin to the bedside. I cast about in my coat for a handkerchief and, carefully, I dipped it in the water before wringing it out and placing it upon Watson’s fevered brow. Again he stirred slightly, but did not regain consciousness. There was no fire lit in the hearth, which was probably just as well to reduce Watson’s temperature but the chill of the room seemed to intensify after dipping my handkerchief in the cold water. With one hand on the handkerchief, I let the other take up Watson’s hand again. His fingers were calloused but exquisite. How many times had I longed to feel them in my palms and kiss them? I did so now, brushing my lips across his knuckles and placing tiny kisses upon his palm. He shifted again and made a slight noise that could almost be called a whimper.

I hushed him, smoothing his brow with the wet handkerchief, “Shhh, Watson, shhh, I have you, I’m here my _dear_ Watson and I swear to you,” The lump in my throat constricted painfully, “I _swear_ to you, I will never be parted from you again.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson wakes to fevered imaginings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again :) this one is a short but important one! Hope you're all keeping safe and healthy! Enjoy!

(Watson’s POV)

When I awoke, I became aware of a hand on my cheek. I was also conscious of the fact that I was burning. Sweat trickled down my brow, my joints ached maliciously and my head  _ still  _ pounded. I didn’t need a thermometer, or to check my own pulse, to realise I had developed a fever.  _ Fantastic. _ I stirred, blinked slowly, and attempted to open my heavy lids. There was a candle beside the bed, and illuminated by its faint glow was the face of Sherlock Holmes.

The fever must be worse than I thought. I was hallucinating. The sight of his elegant face, a face I thought I would never see again, made me tremble. He can’t be here, it isn’t  _ him. _ The real Holmes was in Baker Street, not Edinburgh. The real Holmes despised me. And the real Holmes was certainly not sitting beside my sick bed, tenderly holding my cheek and looking at me with deep anxiety in his thin features.

“Watson…” he whispered. Even his voice was the same., My mind had conjured him up in exacting detail. But I knew it was not him. Not  _ my  _ Holmes, no,  _ my _ Holmes would sooner strike me than stroke my cheek. 

“Not real… I know you’re not real.” My voice was hoarse, but he must have heard me, as his features became even more concerned. He clasped my hand with his, the other still on my cheek. 

“Watson… Watson, no, I am real, I am here, I  _ found _ you my  _ dear  _ Watson.” He was almost breathless, his voice desperate. He lifted my hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing it tenderly. Now I knew beyond doubt he was a fiction.

“You are not he… my Holmes would not have come. He… he cannot stand the sight of me.” My voice cracked as I said the words, my heart tight in my chest. “But as you are nothing but my fevered imagination, then it will do no harm to tell you how very sorry I am.” I gripped his hand tightly and it was my turn to bring our hands to my lips. I kissed his cool fingers and sighed. “I didn’t mean for you to ever find out, but you know everything and I suppose it was foolish of me to even imagine I could conceal it from you.” My eyes filled with tears once again and my throat was constricting painfully. 

“But I couldn’t help it…” I whispered forlornly. “I couldn’t help but fall in love with you, my  _ dear Holmes _ .” I began crying in earnest, hot tears fell down my burning, fevered cheeks. I raised a trembling hand to delicately stroke his beloved face, terrified the illusion before me would vanish before I said all my heart yearned to.“I love you with everything that I am. So wholly and completely that I don’t know where I end and you begin. What I  _ do  _ know is that I am unbelievably lacking in so many ways. I am a slow-witted, crumbling, burdensome cripple. I should have known you would never look at me that way…” My voice broke, I let my hand fall back to the other, which still clasped his, as further tears escaped my eyes. I was helpless to stop them now. It felt soothing in a way, to confess all to this phantom, and yet, I so wished he were real that my whole being ached with sorrow.

I looked away in that moment from our clasped hands and up into his face. His own tears had begun to fill his eyes and he looked at me with such sadness, such longing, that I had to close my eyes against the intensity of it. 

“My  _ dearest _ …” I heard him whisper and my eyes flew open once more. I stared into his expressive grey eyes and held my breath. “Oh, my dear, _ dear _ John.” His hand on my cheek began to wipe away my tears with such aching gentleness that the gesture seemed almost reverent. “How can you ever forgive me? I have been such a fool. Such a blind, heartless fool. Do not say such things. You are emphatically wrong... because," He took a deep breath. "I  _ can _ and  _ do _ love you. More than I can ever express.” 

I gasped at this confession and clutched his hand tighter. Slowly, he leant forward and gently, delicately, as if I was made of spun glass, kissed me. His lips, soft and warm. The undiluted joy this sensation filled me with was, unfortunately, fleeting, as I once again slipped into unconsciousness.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson's fever breaks and Holmes takes care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, sorry this update was a little late I've been working on a new story which I hope to share with you when this one has reached its zenith. Enjoy!

(Holmes’ POV)

The sunlight streaming through the window, slanting across my eyelids with a feather-light touch, was what finally woke me that morning. I had not meant to sleep, and I couldn’t have dozed for very long, but my neck ached abominably. My posture as I leant against the uncomfortable wooden chair was to blame for that. Watson still slept but, to my tremendous relief, his fever had broken. He breathed more evenly and he was no longer burning.

I heard a slight, cautious tread of steps as someone came up the stairs, and the metallic clatter of a bucket. No doubt the maid bringing up fresh coals and firewood. Pandiculating languidly, I stood from the chair and made for the door. It had become even colder in the room overnight and now that Watson was no longer burning up, a fire would be necessary. After carefully opening the door, I peered into the corridor and caught sight of the young girl, who was now timidly tiptoeing up the last few steps. Her hurriedly tidied mop of mousy brown hair fell out of her bun in wisps, and she wore an apron entirely too large for her. She was heaving along a bucket full of wood and newspaper as she reached the top of the stairs. She started when she saw me but I placed a finger to my lips and smiled at her. She relaxed and scurried forward with the bucket, grinning. I placed a shilling in her hand as she proffered the supplies.

Arms now full of a few logs, kindling and scraps of newspaper, I turned back into the room. I lit the fire with care, grateful to have something to do with my fingers. The crack of the wood as it caught light was calming and the warmth it began to emanate was extremely welcome. After locking the door, I took my place in the chair beside Watson again and looked into his face. I was better able to see his features in daylight and was horrified to see how thin his cheeks had become in such a short time. The dark circles under his eyes told their own story and although he wasn’t as pale as last night, he was still rather grey. 

I remembered what he said last night when he woke up delirious. His steadfast belief that I couldn't be real was painful enough, but it was the adamant tone he used when he insisted  _ his _ Holmes despised him that had nearly broken me.  _ Oh _ but how my heart had swelled when he whispered how he loved me. I was so overcome in that moment that the sadness at his disbelief ebbed almost completely. I smiled to myself as I recalled kissing his soft lips tenderly. 

I longed to do so again. Carefully, I placed a hand on the quilt and the other on his cheek as I leaned down. It was the briefest of touches, the lightest press of lips but it made my heart beat wildly. I kissed him again, more firmly, as I stroked his cheek; once again marvelling at how soft his lips were beneath my own. I placed small kisses along his brow and cheek as I stroked back a stray lock of hair. His eyelids flickered but did not open. Emboldened, I sought his mouth once more, kissing him, tugging slightly on his bottom lip as I did so. He hummed softly and sighed, his warm breath tickling my face. I smiled. Waking him up to my kisses had seemed only a wild fantasy before this morning. A far off, far fetched desire that I had barely allowed myself to contemplate. 

I kissed his lips again, slowly, savouring their taste. He stirred and began to return the kiss, closed lipped and experimental. His eyelids fluttered and those bleary blue eyes looked up at me with infinite fondness. He didn’t seem quite awake but smiled at me warmly. His hand reached up and brushed my cheek as he pecked my lips once more.

“Holmes…” he hummed, his breath hot against my skin.

“Shhh… sleep...” said I, sighing against his lips, skimming the surface of the skin lightly but not indulging in another kiss.

“This is a dream…” he whispered, his voice tired but content.

“Then it is a good dream.” I breathed before giving in and kissing his mouth. “Sleep…” I murmured against his lips, cupping his cheek and stroking it softly, tenderly, until his eyes closed once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also for those of you that may have noticed the mild repurposing of part of this scene and can tell me where it is from, we can be friends forever ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson wakes, fully conscious and a long awaited conversation takes place between him and Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, it's the last chapter! Thank you to all those who have stuck with me this far! I decided to upload a day early as last week I uploaded a day late and fair's fair! A huge thank you again to all who left such encouraging comments, you've been wonderful! And of course an enormous thank you to my wonderful beta, [ApprenticeofDoyle!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle)
> 
> Enjoy the last chapter and I'll be back soon with another one-shot that I've just finished :)

(Watson’s POV)

I awoke feeling content, not burning as I had been previously, but pleasantly warmed, cosy. Slowly, as consciousness began to creep back, I recalled scraps of a conversation. I recalled dreaming in my fevered state that I saw Holmes here, speaking to me. ‘ _I can and do love you’,_ my mind whispered, echoes from a dream.

I hadn’t yet opened my eyes but I squeezed them tightly shut against the memory, against the cruelty of my own mind. I could feel my tears begin to rise again; I turned my head and buried it further into the pillow. What a coward I was, I couldn’t even face the torturous ravings of my own mind.

But, just then, my mind supplied another memory, lips, warm and gentle, pressed to mine. _‘Then it is a good dream’._ The strength of that tactile recollection startled me, it had seemed so real. I tried to bring a hand up to my lips but found I could not, for my fingers were being clasped tightly. 

“Watson…?” a familiar voice whispered.

My eyes flew open at that. His face appeared before me, marred with concern, his expressive brows knitted together with anxiety, but, his eyes, his eyes shone with warmth, with affection. I blinked.

“This is not a dream, my dear Watson. I am here.” His voice was soft, soothing and I couldn’t help but sigh at the sound of it.

“H-Holmes?” I stammered, the tears that threatened upon my waking loomed in the wings once more, but this time they were not tears of grief. 

“Yes...” He sighed the word, letting his baritone ripple over it like sunlight. 

“I… I didn’t imagine it? You are real, you are here, y-you…” I faltered, not daring to ask the question. But, as ever, Holmes knew precisely what I was thinking, as he so often does. In answer, he shifted forward on the chair, took my face in his long, elegant hands, and he kissed me. 

I sighed against his mouth, nearly faint with it. The memory of waking up to these lips had been real too, I mused, disbelieving. He really _had_ kissed me with exquisite tenderness, had whispered to me as I fell back into the waiting arms of Morpheus. 

My heart soared. I kissed him back, matching his movements, tasting his sweet lips as I had ached to do for so long. He hummed contentedly as I lifted my hands and buried them in his thick hair. I threaded my fingers through his dark locks, gently caressing his scalp whilst I opened my mouth to deepen the kiss. He responded eagerly, his tongue exploring enthusiastically, questing in his usual thorough manner. He shifted off the chair and came to kneel on the bed, looming above me, not once breaking the kiss, simply needing to be closer.

We broke apart when the need for air became more essential and I breathed in the heady scent of _him._ I smiled against his cheek, nuzzling my nose against his affectionately. He returned my smile with a brilliant grin, and chuckled softly.

“My _God_ ,” He murmured, “I love you…” His voice caught slightly but he took a small breath to steady himself, “How much I have longed to say that to you.” He sighed before continuing, “My dearest John, for dearest you will always be, no matter what may befall us, my dearest... most beloved John.” This time, not only did the tears spring to my eyes but they broke free of their dam and began a steady course down my cheeks. Holmes lifted a delicate thumb to brush one tear away and kissed the other, halting its progress. His lips drifted up and I closed my eyes, revelling in the soft touches. I felt him kiss my eyelids lightly and I smiled. When he pulled away I opened my eyes slowly, drinking in the sight of his beautiful features, aglow with affection and love. 

“You feared your love,” I said carefully, beginning to understand. “That is why you sent me away…” A darker thought crept into my mind then, “You didn’t… want what you felt to distract you from your work…” I looked down at the bedsheet, suddenly feeling self-conscious, vulnerable. “You said yourself that you abhor the softer emotions-”

“No!” he whispered earnestly, I looked up and his dark eyes bore into mine, pleading, willing me to understand. “That isn’t it at all. I feared my emotions, yes, but never because of my work. I feared them because I feared myself. I thought you couldn’t feel the same, you, an admirer of women, and I thought that… well… I feared you would eventually…” He huffed, apparently irritated at his lack of eloquence, “...that you would be disgusted… look at me with hatred, fear a-and revulsion.” His voice trembled, “I would sooner break my heart by casting you from me than ever let that occur…”

“Oh, Holmes…” I said softly, quite overcome, and more than a little taken aback by the amount of pain he had been concealing from me for so long. I passed a hand through his hair again. “I _would_ never, _could_ never, look at you in such a way. You know now, after all I confessed last night, that I have loved you for so very long. You know my fears. I thought you had deduced my feelings and… I found… knowing I would never see you again, entirely too much to bear.”

I closed my eyes again, remembering the pain of the last few days. The utter emptiness that had filled my heart.

“Oh my John… how will you ever forgive me for causing you such pain?” His voice was so strained, as if he might crack open at any moment.

“Shhh... “ I soothed him, the hand in his hair drawing circles with my fingers. “I forgive you, my love, let us not dwell on what has passed. We are here, and, as impossible as it still seems, you are mine, and I find… that I have never been happier.” I smiled up at him and watched as his face transformed into a look of pure joy, the likes of which I never thought I would witness. 

In answer, he sought my lips again. He kissed me passionately, pouring all of himself into the action. Every ounce of love, adoration and desire. It ignited a flame within me and I returned the kiss with as much fervour as I could muster. Our tongues danced together, and I clutched him to me, cradling his head and angling my own in order to better devour him. My hands slipped greedily beneath his shirt, chasing skin. He was dressed in only his shirtsleeves, his jacket, waistcoat and collar having been discarded earlier, and my trembling fingers withdrew to find and undo his buttons. As I did so he scrambled beneath the sheets, body situating itself alongside mine as he continued to explore. Without the thin cotton between our two bodies, I could feel him that much more, and I let out a soft moan as lithe legs straddled mine. His hands found the hem of my nightshirt and began to lift it with tantalising slowness up my legs, exposing my thighs.

I cast off his shirt wildly, running my hands over his taut muscles. He broke the kiss to devour the skin of my neck and my breaths came out in harsh pants. He moaned when my fingers skimmed his pectorals and he slid his hands up and down my thighs, sending sparks of arousal up through my body and blood to rush south. 

“Holmes…” I groaned.

“Shhhh…” he sighed, nipping at my collarbone, “The door is locked but the walls aren’t overly thick. We may be on the top floor but we must be quiet, my love.”

I could feel the hard line of his arousal through his trousers, and thought of it consumed my attention as I tugged eagerly at his belt and flies. He obliged by kicking them aside, only clad in his smalls now, before his fingers lifted my nightshirt up and over my head. I lay bare before him now, and he stared at me, his grey gaze dark with desire as he drank in every detail. He placed a hand over my heart, leaning down to kiss one of my nipples.

“Beautiful…” he mumbled into my skin, and I clawed at his smallclothes, desperate to see all of him. He understood my action perfectly and pulled down his smalls to reveal the most exquisite sight. My breath hitched to see him so exposed and, impossibly, I became even more aroused. We rocked together then, gasping at the pleasure the friction brought to both of us, not needing anymore than this, so overwound as we were. All too soon we found our completion, Holmes keening and sighing above me as he reached his climax. I thought he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

When Holmes had wiped us both down and came back to the bed, he encircled me in his long, sinewy arms, drawing me close so my head rested against his chest. I sighed, feeling drowsy again and still hovering high from the pleasure we had just indulged in. I held him tightly as we both drifted off to sleep, determined to never let the insufferable man go. I needn’t examine my heart, now, or ever again, for there he was, never, I fear, to be removed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also triple points to those of you that spotted the lines that I have repurposed and are not at all mine!


End file.
